Her Fake Billionaire

by Tasha Fawkes

"Do you know where he lives or what he does for a living?"

  I shook my head. Courtney's eyes widened.

  "So, for all you know, he's a serial killer?"

  I had to laugh. "No serial killer knows how to give good sex like that," I said. "I must say, he was a very considerate lover."

  "Maybe you can find him."

  What? Should I? The more I thought about it, the more it sounded like it might be a good idea. At least it would be a way to keep my parents at bay. I could pretend to date Ben. He wasn't bad to look at, and if I recall correctly, he had told me he'd gone to an Ivy League school. I had no idea what he did for a living, but surely, someone that looked as hot as he did had a good job and made a decent income.

  I thought about it. "Maybe you're right. Maybe a distraction would do me some good, and he didn't seem put off by my… my behavior at Daniel's wedding."

  Courtney giggled. "I like him already, just for that."

  "But how would I contact him? I have no idea--"

  "Google him. Social media." She looked at me. "Come on, Karen, use your noggin."

  She was right. I could find Ben if I wanted to. The thought of seeing him again wasn't as abhorrent as I had made it out to be. The sex had been mind-blowing. I wouldn't exactly be using him if we had an agreement. If he knew that I wanted to pretend to have a relationship with him, it wouldn't be bad, would it?

  The only thing I had to consider was whether or not he could act the part, and even more importantly, would he want to?

  Untitled

  Karen_Ben Part 2

  Chapter 6

  Ben

  You could have knocked me over with a feather when I got the call a couple of days later. From Karen. I usually don't answer phone calls when I don't recognize the caller number, but it was in the same area code and I was distracted, so I did.

  "Hello?" a woman's voice said. "This is Ben… Ben Reynolds, right?"

  "That's me," I said. "Who’s this?"

  "It's Karen… Karen Queen."

  As I was processing this, wondering what the hell was happening, and how she got my number, she continued.

  "Can we meet for coffee?"

  My first instinct was to tell her to go to hell, especially after the way she had treated me, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I was a bit curious. What did she want? I guess the only way I'd find out is if I accepted her invitation. Maybe, just maybe, there was a heart beating somewhere inside her.

  "All right, I can do that," I said, disguising my curiosity and my surprise with a bland tone. "Where and when?”

  "You work in the MetLife building just off Park and East forty-second, right?"

  "Yes--" How the hell did she know that? Before I could ask, she continued.

  "How about Café Centro, say, thirty minutes?"

  The café she spoke about was on the north side of the building. It would take me all of five minutes to get there. But why did she want to see me? "I'll be there."

  With that, the call disconnected. She had timed that out perfectly. So, she knew where I worked, but did she also know my work hours? Had she somehow found out when I usually took my lunch break? I couldn't help but be intrigued and suspicious at the same time.

  I left the office and took the elevator downstairs, walking outside and around the corner to the café. As usual, the streets were packed with nearly bumper-to-bumper traffic, my ears barraged with honking horns, squeal of breaks, the sound of trucks releasing their air brakes, and the sight of delivery trucks double parked to load or unload. The air smelled of car exhaust, tire rubber, asphalt, and that steamy, musty smell from the vents of the subway below the streets. I loved it. I wove my way through the pedestrian traffic to the café and entered. I paused for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the slightly subdued lighting of the interior, then made my way toward a small table with two polished wooden chairs near the front window, a corner of course, where I could look out on the street. I tried not to get ahead of myself, tried not to make assumptions. What did she want? She’d written me off just a couple of days ago. Then again, maybe she couldn't stop thinking about me. I recalled our inebriated romp in her bed the other night, then chuckled and shook my head.

  She was early too. I looked up as she breezed into the café. She wore a simple sundress with wide straps, a tightly fitted bodice that accented her ample and perky breasts, wrapped her waist like a glove, and then dropped into loose folds of fabric. I wasn’t sure what kind of fabric, but it flowed airily around her as she paused at the door, removed her sunglasses and placed them just so on top of her head as she coolly scanned the growing lunch crowd. Her eyes found me in the corner, stared a moment, and then she calmly walked toward my table and slid into the chair across from me. I got a whiff of her perfume as she sat. Some type of cool floral scent that had my pulse pounding a little faster. It smelled expensive.

  She looked different than I had seen her the other night. Not so much physically, just the way she was more composed and put together. Of course, I gazed again at her voluptuous curves and the way her hair, pulled back into a high ponytail, draped past her shoulders in light golden waves. Her dark blue eyes mesmerized me. I hadn't noticed how dark they were the other evening. Then again, it had been dark in the bar, and then in her apartment.

  The silky sky-blue sundress complemented her skin tone, her makeup perfectly applied, the epitome of composure. And yet, once again, I sensed that beneath that portrayal of composure was more than a little hesitance. I couldn’t figure out why. She was one hell of a good-looking woman.

  We stared at each other for several moments. I decided that I would wait for her to broach the topic of conversation. She stared at me in what I could only describe as a half-wary, half-curious look, taking in my facial features, my suit, off the rack of course, and my overall demeanor, which I hoped was perceived as nonchalant. Finally, she spoke.

  "Maybe I was a bit too hasty the other day," she began.

  Was that her idea of an apology? I didn't know and didn't have time to ask. One thing about her was indisputable. She had guts. She was assertive, but I still sensed a bit of nervousness. The pulse throbbed in her throat and she swallowed thickly before she spoke again.

  "What exactly do you do? For work, I mean? I know you're an executive assistant, but an executive assistant for what?"

  What was this? An interrogation? "Why the sudden interest?" I asked.

  "We'll get to that in a minute," she said, lifting an eyebrow, waiting.

  I sighed. "I suppose, since you managed to track me down and get my phone number, you know that I work at Hemmings Commodities."

  She nodded. "Yes, yes, I know that. But what exactly do you do?"

  I made a face and shrugged. "I assist the boss." I paused before I continued. "I research commodities. I look for products to buy or sell at a quick profit. I print out spreadsheets, fill out trade tickets, but most importantly, and oh so exciting, I'm generally a go-fer for the boss." No sense in sugarcoating it. It is what it is. She grimaced, an expression that almost had me laughing.

  "You're not bull-shitting me, right?"

  I frowned. What was with her? "If I was bull-shitting you, I would've told you I was the boss."

  "Executive assistant," she mused.

  She tapped one perfectly manicured and painted fingernail against her bottom lip as she continued to stare at me.

  "Well, that's going to be a problem."

  I lifted an eyebrow. "It is?" Was she mental or something? I began to wonder.

  "Can you act?"

  I stared at her, glanced out the window at the traffic passing by, wondering why I had even agreed to meet her. A one-night stand with great sex was one thing, but I didn't want to get mixed up with a crazy person, and I don't care who she was or how much money she had. Almost.

  "Excuse me?" I'd had enough. I had no idea what was going on in that mind of hers, but I didn't really have time for this. I hoped that she wasn't going to be one of those stalkers. I've seen Fat
al Attraction. That's the last thing I needed. Seriously. She'd been a good lay, and I certainly wouldn't mind tapping that again, but I didn't want to have anything to do with some lunatic. I began to stand, but then she sighed, rolled her eyes, and gestured for me to sit back down.

  "Bear with me, Ben. There's a reason for my madness."

  I sat, glanced at my watch, and then tapped it. "You got about five minutes before I have to get back to work."

  "Fine," she said.

  She leaned back in her chair, and for a moment, and just a moment, I saw an aura of uncertainty and vulnerability. While she gathered her thoughts, I once again glanced pointedly at my watch.

  "To be blunt, Ben, I'm trying to avoid another disastrous matchmaking endeavor of my parents." She shrugged with a slight grimace. "No doubt you still remember how the first one went."

  I said nothing. So, her parents had been behind her engagement to Daniel Stone? I said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

  "My parents, to be totally honest, are more interested in a merger marriage than in a real marriage for me—"

  I interrupted. "You're over twenty-one years old, Karen. And we don't live in the eighteenth century. You do know that it you don't have to worry about an arranged marriage in that regard, don't you?"

  She made a face. "You haven't met my parents. Please, hear me out."

  I sighed, shaking my head. "Fine. Please continue."

  "I'd like to make you a proposal."

  A proposal. I couldn't understand why a grown woman like her, obviously well off and more than a little spoiled, didn't stand up to her parents. Then again, who was I to make assumptions? Maybe they were threatening to cut off her inheritance. Maybe she was just a woman who is used to getting her own way. I merely shrugged, waiting for her to continue.

  "What I would like to propose is that you pretend to come from a powerful, wealthy family."

  I said nothing. I couldn't. I sat in stupefied disbelief.

  "I want you to pretend to be my boyfriend." She clarified.

  Pretend to be her boyfriend. Well then. Although I was initially and immediately irritated that she didn't see me as a person but merely as a means to an end, I was nevertheless intrigued despite myself. Pretend to be her boyfriend. Interesting. I pretended to play along, just to see where this went. She launched into a rather convoluted background of her parent's history, dropped the fact that she came from the Mayflower lineage - as if that was supposed to impress me - and then asked me if I would be willing to take part in her plan.

  I frowned. "What's the point? I could pose as your boyfriend until the cows come home, but how is that going to help you if your parents want you to get married? I'm not interested in getting married, and I don't see the difference of dating me, even if it is fake, or the other guy your parents are planning to set you up with. Both are pre-arranged."

  "But this way I have a choice, and I have a bit of control."

  Control over what? "So, you want to pretend that I'm your boyfriend, and potentially even on the fiancé market, to keep your parents at bay? It sounds like a plot for a novel. Why don't you just tell them that you're not interested in their matchmaking?" Before she could speak, I continued. "And how far do you plan on taking this arrangement? Sooner or later, you're going to have to admit the truth, that this is nothing but a ploy, that you don't plan on marrying me, or whatever. What's the point? After it ends, what's going to stop them from just planning another merger marriage? In fact, why don't you tell them to go fly a kite? Are they threatening to cut off your inheritance or something?"

  "It's not that simple," she murmured.

  Again, I sensed an aura of vulnerability. She shook her head, eyes wide, almost as if she were desperate. Honestly, I didn't see the point, but apparently it was very important to her. I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back in my chair. "And what do I get out of this brilliant plan of yours?"

  I almost laughed when she swept her hand gracefully from her face down her body with a raised eyebrow, a suggestive look in her expression. "And a new wardrobe. After all, you'll have to look the part if you're going to pull this off."

  I was very well aware that my suit was off the rack, but I didn't think I looked that bad. I began to scowl.

  "And to make it even more lucrative, I'll throw in ten grand."

  She was bribing me to pose as her boyfriend. Interesting. Very interesting. It was obvious to me that she was used to getting her own way, and doing anything to get what she wanted. Should I? I was intrigued despite myself. I still didn't understand the purpose of it all, because as far as I was concerned, it would only forestall her parents for a short time. But I suppose she had her reasons. I couldn't believe I was even considering it. I would be crazy to agree to this. She would be using me, and I would be letting her.

  Still, how in the world could I say no to that beautiful face… or those curves of hers?

  Chapter 7

  Karen

  I waited impatiently for Ben to show up at the men's wear boutique clothing store. After all, if he was going to pretend to be my boyfriend, and maybe something a little bit more, depending on my parent's reaction, he needed to look the part. An acceptable new wardrobe that would be more fitting to his role wouldn't come cheap, but I was willing to pay.

  He showed up ten minutes late. Now, that might have just been because he hadn't found a taxi, or he was doing it just to bug me, to show me that just because I had broached this plan and bribed him, that he wasn't going to be at my beck and call. But for all the trouble I was going to, he'd better not give me any trouble or I'd drop him so fast his head would spin. There were plenty of men who would jump at the chance to pretend to be my boyfriend.

  While waiting for him, I had already picked through some clothes, found a couple of pairs of slacks and dark blue denim jeans. Some of the clothes were stylish, some casual, and the same applied to shirts and a couple of different jacket styles. When he finally walked in the door, my irritation faded. For a moment. I couldn't help but admire his looks. He wore faded jeans, tennis shoes sans socks, and a forest green polo that accented his eyes to a disturbing degree. As he paused in the doorway, gazing through the interior of the store looking for me, I couldn't stop from staring at those eyes. His hair looked a bit ruffled, giving him an even more rugged look. I got the urge to slide my fingers through that hair again…

  Dammit!

  I could not allow myself to be attracted to him. Even my memories of my drunken night of sex with him were conspiring against me, causing my nipples to tingle with an odd thrill at the sight of him. He caught my eye and offered a half wave, grinning as he approached. He gave me the once over as his eyes slid from my hair down along my neckline, to the cleavage that just peeked out of my emerald green silk blouse and the dark skirt beneath, then down to my high heels and back again. I couldn't help but feel that tingle extending from behind my nipples all the way down my spine to warm the depths of my belly.

  He took one look at the clothes draped over my arm, heaved a put-upon sigh, and then looked at me. I extended my arm without small talk. "Dressing rooms are in the back."

  He lifted an eyebrow, grinned again, and took the clothes, heading for the dressing room in the rear corner of the store without a backward glance. I did see him lifting the hangar with the slacks, shaking his head slightly. Did he even own a decent pair of slacks? Of course he did! He worked for a commodities trader. He had to wear suits or at least dress slacks with a button-down shirt, but surely none as fine as what was found in this store. When I had seen him at the coffee shop the other day, he'd been wearing an off the rack suit and hum-drum white dress shirt. He'd filled it out nicely, but it was what it was. What he needed was some custom-tailored clothes, and this was the place.

  I strolled toward the upholstered loveseat tucked into a narrow alcove near the dressing rooms and sat down. I tugged my skirt a little lower as I crossed my legs, more out of something to do than stare at the dressing room stall door, w
aiting impatiently for him to change. When he emerged from the dressing room, more than a slight scowl on his face, eyebrow lifted in question, I barely managed to keep a straight expression. Oh my God, what a difference just a couple of articles of clothing made.

  He'd gone from a humdrum commodities trader to billboard model status. My mouth grew dry and my gaze took him in from top to toe and back again. His first outfit was a pair of skinny jeans, which I was sure he wouldn't ever have chosen for himself, but I had to say, accentuated that gorgeous ass of his, his strong thighs, and fit tightly over the bulge in his crotch. If one looked closely, one would almost be able to discern the outline of his cock along the inside of his thigh. A casual, short-sleeved and collared shirt was tucked into the jeans, and the designer sports jacket that he had just finished shrugging into fit the broad spread of his shoulders just so. Not bad. Not bad at all. It was amazing what a pair of pants and sports jacket could do.

  I eyed him critically, my gaze lingering on his hair. We would have to get him a stylish fade haircut, but at this moment, all I wanted to do – again - was slide my fingers through that lush, dark brown hair of his.

  "Well, what do you think?"

  "Not bad," I commented. "Not bad at all."

  "I think I look ridiculous," he commented. "Does anyone have a problem with regular boot cut jeans? I feel silly wearing these."

  I was about to tell him that what he thought didn't matter, but then I changed my mind. If I wanted him to act the part he needed to feel comfortable in his own clothes. I offered a slight shrug, flicked my hand, and then nodded. "Feel free to browse and find something you like," I said.

  He quickly retreated into the dressing room and emerged several moments later - much faster than it had taken him to don my choice of clothing for him – in his own clothes. He made his way past me, examining the racks with a dubious expression. I turned back toward the dressing rooms, closing my eyes and counting to five. Patience. I would need patience. I had to be careful. Yes, this was my idea, and yes, I had bribed him to go along with that, but my instincts were telling me that the more freedom in his supposed role that I gave him, the more it would be he who was determining boundaries. I couldn't let that happen. He was here for one purpose and one purpose only. To pretend to be my boyfriend. Nothing more, nothing less.